A/N -- From the author of The Forgotten, comes a brand-new version of the movie from the Other Wybie's perspective!!!! DUN DUN DUN!!!!

Is it an overdone idea? Yes. But I guaruntee that you'll never read another version that's quite like this one.

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He was newly created, custom-made, but he wasn't stupid.

Even from the second he gained awareness, he had a sense of self, a sense of intelligence, although he truly knew so little.

It began with a melody, the shadow of a song drifting and finally penetrating his ears. It was quite enrapturing, especially considering that it was the first sound he had ever heard.

"La-da da-da da-da dum-dum, la-da da-da da, da-da-dum…"

Next came the sight. Even though the space he was in was dark, he could see himself, and he could see the pretty, pale, radiant woman leaning over him. She had not noticed his rise to consciousness, occupied as she was by repeatedly threading a needle through the cuff of his pant leg.

He struggled to raise himself – he was lying flat on a large table of some sort. Now the woman saw him, and as she raised her head, he saw her eyes were sparkling black buttons. But that didn't disturb him – his own eyes were identical to hers.

The woman's face glowed with girlish delight. "Oh, you're awake," she gushed. "Hush – don't speak, my dear. Oh, but what am I saying?" She laughed at her own foolishness. "You couldn't speak if you tried."

She continued to stitch up his clothes as he tried to force himself to a sitting position. It wasn't easy. His arms wobbled vigorously, like they were filled with jelly. When the woman realized this, she placed a crimson-nailed hand on his chest and coaxed him back down. "Shhh. Relax," she crooned. "You're not quite strong enough yet, dear. Oh, but we haven't even been properly introduced!" She smiled and pointed to herself with a long, elegant finger. "I am the Other Mother, though I will, of course, be the only mother that you will ever have."

Moth-er, moth-er, Oth-er Moth-er. He wasn't quite sure what a mother was, but decided that it wouldn't be a bad thing to have.

"As for you," the Oth-er Moth-er continued, "you are called the Other Wybie." She leaned in closer to him. "Do you understand, dear? Other Wybie."

Oth-er Wy-bie, Oth-er Wy-bie. He turned the name around in his mind. Not just a name but his name. He was so pleased to have it that he didn't acknowledge the fact that Other Wybie meant that someone else was also a Wybie. That didn't really matter – did it?

"There." The Other Mother tied off the end of the thread she was using, satisfied with her work. "I'm just about finished. I'll be going now, dear; you sat here and rest awhile. You may come find me in the kitchen when you feel a little stronger."

The Other Mother opened the door, briefly allowing a sliver of pale yellow light to slip in. He saw that this room had many counters and drawers, all with fabric and thread and needles and buttons, oh, so many buttons. Then the darkness swallowed up the light again, and he could only see his own dark clothes and creamy brown skin.

So he rested, sensing that something important was coming.

After all, he was newly created, custom-made, but he wasn't stupid.